


Talking With The Director

by ialpiriel



Series: Sole Survivor Prof [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Deaf Character, Family Reunions, Gen, Language, Nonverbal Communication, Nonverbal Main Character, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6387634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel/pseuds/ialpiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nonverbal f!survivor shows up in the institute. Hopes they’ll understand sign language. Turns out they don’t. Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talking With The Director

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on the [fallout kink meme](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6099.html?thread=18868947#t18868947)

His fingers dig into her spine, no catch of callus on fabric. Soft hands. Weak hands. Not like the people above.

I AM YOUR SON he had written, letters shaky. She had know it when she saw him, saw the eyes and nose and chin that looked nothing like hers, the clear straight eyes, the faint remnants of that beautiful dark hair.

Digs her own fingers into his spine.

He smells like chemicals, like antiseptic, like warm cloth and concrete dust.

She lets out one sob, lets it scream its way up her throat, stops it so it hiccups out and her shoulders heave.

Presses her face deeper into his coat.

He’s tall, so tall, strong and straight-backed even at his age.

He’s the one who pulls away first, puts his hands on her shoulders and holds her at arm’s length. He drops his arms to write on his paper.

YOU ARE SAFE in big block letters.

Prof raises her hands, signs her question carefully. The ghouls don’t sign the same, nor do the others who sign. It’s all charades, now. Maybe, if anyone would have preserved it, it would be--

He stares, and when he squints, she signs again, even slower.

CAN YOU HEAR? he writes on his pad of paper.

Prof feels her heart leap into her throat, and then drag itself down into her stomach. She fumbles for her own pad of paper.

YES. CAN YOU SIGN?????? she writes back. Snorts to try to keep the snot from running out of her nose. That’s more dignified than using her sleeve. There’s no dignity here, though, really. Her facepaint left a splotch on his nice white lab coat. Tries to rub away the tears as Shaun--Shaun, Shaun, her baby all grown up, with a life of his own, and a title, someone important--reads her pad of paper. Her fingers come away black.

He looks at her, eyes wide, then turns away.

He shakes his head without looking at her.

She immediately scribbles on her paper again. 

I CAN TEACH YOU she writes, fumbles at the lapels of his lab coat to pull him around, hold up the paper for him. Shakes the paper as he reads it, lets the hope get into her eyes.

Shaun looks away, pulls out of her grip. Not enough to be obviously intentional, but enough that she understands.

She lets go of his coat, flips up the front of her shirt so she can rub the meaty part of her hand across the cleaner inside. Tucks her paper back into her pocket, lets her hands hang at her sides.

I CAN SHOW YOU AROUND Shaun writes on his pad of paper, and she nods. Doesn’t look at the other Shaun, as they step past him. A synth. A young one. A child. Do all synths start as children, or is this one special? Do these people use children to do their hard work?

She follows Shaun out into the atrium, pulls her collar up to scrub at some of the grime. She needs a shower, is suddenly aware of how long it’s been since she even dunked her face in a bucket of water.

No one stares, but no one looks at them as they walk.

He keeps looking back to check that she’s there.

She snaps her fingers, as they go downstairs, and he doesn’t react.

Of course.

They can augment Kellogg, can turn him into a cyborg, can make him live forever, but they can’t even have the decency to teach a deaf kid how to sign, or give him some way to communicate that’s not writing.

He leaves her alone in the atrium, and she’s very aware of just how _brown_ everything about her is--the dirt, and the over-washed shirts, and her boots that stink like brahminshit, the flaking rust on her armor, her ragged fingernails caked with grime, her facepaint, her jeans that are more patch than original denim.

No one looks at her for more than half a second. She tries to nod at them, tries to communicate that she’s here for a reason. That she’s _important_. That she was the one who should have raised The Director, that she’s been rolling around through the Commonwealth for months now, that she’s their best link to the outside world.

She stands next to the elevator, watches everyone go by on their way to the cafeteria or their workspaces. Tucks her hands behind her back, ducks her head. Wishes she had a dose of Daytripper. Wishes for anything from the outside world. Checks the breast pocket of her undershirt anyway, hopes maybe she just forgot that she made herself a paper packet of pills this morning, or yesterday, or two days ago, or whenever she last--

A synth is staring at her. A gen 2, its false skin intact and its eyes clear gold. It walks toward her, keeps its head down and itself out of the way.

“Father ordered me to be your interpreter. I have been teaching--” and the synth pauses, glances back toward _Father’s_ quarters. “I have been teaching S9-23 sign language.”

She signs at the synth, and it replies. She names herself, and it repeats the sign back. After a moment, she asks for its designation number.

“2M-95,” it tells her, uses its synthesized voice instead of signing. 

“May I call you Ninety-Five?” she asks. 

It signs its agreement.

People are starting to stare now, so she catches Ninety-Five’s hand and pulls it out of the atrium, toward the nearest supply closet.

“Ma’am, this is a--” it begins.

“I know,” Prof signs back. “But people won’t stare here.” She settles onto one of the metal crates, the ridges on top digging into her ass. It’s not comfortable, but it’s alright. “Do you know the words the outside uses?”

“The outside does not use the correct words,” Ninety-Five replies.

“Language changes,” Prof replies, snorts. “Get used to it. I had to. Here, watch. This is synth--” she demonstrates, and Ninety-Five copies the sign. “Institute.” “Brotherhood of Steel.” “Deathclaw.” “Yao Guai.” “Diamond City.” “Goodneighbor.” “Minutemen.” She hesitates before she throws out the last sign. “Shaun.”

Ninety-Five signs back, “Father,” nods.

What a human gesture.

“Good enough,” Prof signs. “Will you escort me around?”

“I am here to serve,” Ninety-Five replies, straightens its back and folds its hands behind itself as Prof stands.


End file.
